Sweet Hope Read online

  A Sweet Home Novel

  Tillie Cole

  Copyright© Tillie Cole 2015 All rights reserved

  Cover Design by Damonza at www.damonza.com

  Copyedited by Cassie McGowan at www.gatheringleavesediting.com

  Formatted by Stephen Jones

  Italian Translation: Sebastian Dusi

  Spanish Translation: Alfredo Mata

  Smashwords Edition

  No Part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photography, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written consent from the publisher and author, except in the instance of quotes for reviews. No part of this book may be uploaded without the permission of the publisher and author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is originally published.

  This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  The publisher and author acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

  Dedication

  To my Sweet Home Series readers… what a ride! You’ve changed my life with your love and support of my beloved Bama gang. I love you all so much it hurts. My sincerest thanks. I am eternally grateful that you gave this author a chance.

  To Molly, Cass, Lexi, Ally, Rome, JD, Austin, Axel, Levi and Reece, you will forever hold a place in my heart. I have enjoyed every minute I’ve spent with you. It’s breaking my heart to see you go, but I’ve sent you off well.

  And, finally, to those (like me) who love the villains! I will forever strive to give you bad boys that are saved by love.

  xXx

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Epilogue

  Bonus Chapter

  Playlist

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Follow Tillie at:

  “Sometimes it is the people who no one imagines anything of who do the things that no one can imagine.”

  Joan Clarke, Mathematician

  Prologue

  A thick fog swallowed me in darkness.

  "Help me," her voice called out. I tried to run forward but my legs wouldn't carry me.

  "Please... help me," her weak, broken voice begged once again. Fear pushed me to turn, but everything was too dark. I was blind. I had no light to lead the way.

  The dense fog thickened and poured down my throat, clogging my lungs. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't move... I couldn't help her.

  "I am afraid... I am so afraid...” she sobbed. Her words whirled in the heavy wind, lashing across my face. My eyes closed, unable to cope with the pain in her voice.

  "I can't get to you," I shouted as the heavy fog forced me to the cold ground. My hands raked at the hard dirt as I fought to get free.

  "I can't... I can't... Go on... I'm so tired..." she cried. I could hear her fading away.

  Panic filled my body. I couldn’t lose her. I had to say goodbye.

  "No!" I screamed. "Don't leave me!" I clawed harder at the ground, my fingernails snapping under the pressure. No matter how hard I fought to push forward, nothing happened. My heart pounded in rhythm with the rumbling thunder overhead. Cold blood trickled through my body. I couldn't break way. I couldn't get free... I couldn't get free...

  Scalding tears filled my eyes as an agonized pain gripped my heart. "I have to say goodbye," I screamed into the nothingness, "Let me say goodbye!" The skin on my fingers tore and bled as the hard dirt turned into broken glass, the sharp edges slicing deep into my flesh.

  "Protect them... always protect them... please… please..." she begged. I could hear the defeat in her voice. She was giving up. She was slipping away.

  “No! Wait!” I tried to scream, but no noise came from my mouth. I clawed at my throat, but I couldn't make a sound.

  A light appeared in the distance, but it was too far from my reach. Dread filled my mind. She was leaving. She was leaving... and I couldn’t say goodbye.

  "Wait!" I silently screamed... "I haven’t said goodbye!" But I was trapped here, caged under the weight of the black fog on this cold ground, my frantic voice muted, my body paralyzed.

  The fog grew thicker and thicker and the light up ahead dimmed from white to gray. "No," I silently cried, "No!"

  Relentlessly, the fog closed in, removing the fading light from view and with it all my hope.

  She was gone…

  Suffocating with grief, I fought for breath. But there was no more air, the nothingness of the fog was all consuming.

  Rage filled tears trickled down my face as I lay here, defeated. I tried to close my eyes, I tried to push the pain into the back of my mind but guilt remained, splintering me from the inside.

  The fog pushed down harder, wrapping me tightly in its hold.

  Darkness was consuming me. Darkness was taking my soul.

  "Goodbye," I mouthed with my final breath, "I just wanted to say goodbye..."

  Jerking upright on my bed, I was panting hard at the dream I’d just had, when I heard, “You got a phone call.”

  Wiping the sleep from my eyes, I took a deep breath trying to erase the dream that haunted me. My hands were damp with sweat, but I just wiped them on my pants, kicked my feet off the bed and made my way down the hallway to the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s happening.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “You, Elpi, you’re happening, your debut.”

  Every inch of me froze, and I gripped the phone so tightly I thought it might shatter under the pressure. “Vin—”

  “You’re ready. Your work is ready. Your collection is a masterpiece and must be shared with the world.”

  “Vin… I appreciate everything you’re trying to do for me, but—”

  “No buts. It’s all arranged. It’s been worked out. I’ve made this happen for you. You need this, Elpi.”

  I worked hard to cool down; hot blood coursed through my veins. I drew in a long, deep breath.

  “You’re ready,” Vin pushed, his voice this time less business, less coercive, and more supportive.

  But I didn’t want it. None of it.

  “Where’s the damn exhibition?” I snapped.

  “Elpi. Don’t be this way. You’re an artist—”

  “I’m not a damn artist!” I interrupted through gritted teeth.

  “You’re an artist!” Vin commanded. “You're the best damn sculptor I’ve ever worked with. Your work surpasses anything I’ve ever seen, including my own work. You’re someone, Elpi. Believe me, you are someone.”

  “Vin—”

  “It’ll be in a smaller gallery, in a smaller museum, in an academic setting. It’s your first exhibit, and it shouldn’t overwhelm you.”

  “Where, Vin?” I asked, exasperated, and ran my hand through my long hair.

&nbs
p; “Seattle.”

  The air sucked out of my lungs as Vin carried on telling me all the good things about Seattle—the art scene, the people, the culture…

  “Elpi, I know you’ll probably argue about the show being in Seattle, but—”

  “I’m in.” I interrupted sharply, and was met with Vin’s shocked silence from behind the crackling receiver.

  “You’re in?”

  “I’m in.”

  “No argument? No telling me your art is only for you and no one else? No telling me you want nothing to do with the art world and the people in it?”

  “No.”

  “Right, well… that’s… perfect! I’ve set up a flight for you to come out here in two weeks’ time. I’ll pick you up from the airport. I’ll get you an apartment—”

  “Don’t bother.”

  “Don’t bother?” Vin questioned slowly.

  “I’ve got somewhere to stay.”

  “In Seattle?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where? With who?”

  “Don’t concern you,” I said coldly. I felt a hand tap on my back. I turned and nodded at the guy behind me and turned back to speak into the phone. “I gotta go.”

  “Right. Well, I guess I’ll see you in two weeks. But if you need anything, if your ‘place’ doesn’t work out, call me.”

  I paused, closed my eyes, and tapped my hand twice on the chipped painted wall before me.

  “Got it.”

  Immediately hanging up the phone, dread ripping the shit out of my stomach, I headed down a dark quiet hallway. Raking my long hair out of my face, my nails then scratched down the heavy dark stubble on my face.

  Two weeks...

  In two weeks, I’d be in Seattle, ready for the next part of my life to begin, but not before having to face a truckload of unresolved shit from my past…

  Chapter One

  Ally

  New York City

  Running across the road, I dodged people left and right in my rush to get to my interview on time. The New York weather was humid and sweltering. I was so happy I’d tied my long hair back in a bun.

  Gripping tightly onto my purse, I jogged along the sidewalk, frantically checking my watch. My plane had been delayed and getting ready in a Boeing 737’s tiny bathroom cubicle wasn’t exactly ideal for presenting flawless makeup and hair.

  But it was worth it. This was all for the exhibition of my dreams. I intended to nail this interview. There was no choice. I would do anything to curate this show… even fly to the East Coast last minute from California to land it... even leave my beautiful newly-curated Contemporary Art gallery at UCLA in the hands of the Art Director.

  Finally reaching the front of the Met, I ran up the stairs in my favorite black Louboutins, straightening out my black sleeveless dress as I reached the top.

  Pausing, I inhaled through my nose, and with a slow exhale from my mouth, pulled back my shoulders and walked into the entrance.

  In minutes I was whisked away to the private offices by the museum director’s assistant and told to wait in a small room dominated by a large wooden table and six chairs. Artwork, from up and coming artists, was hung without rhyme or reason on the white walls. I slumped into a chair, nervously playing with my hands.

  Hearing footsteps outside the room, I forced myself to relax and straightened up just as an older man walked into the room.

  Vin Galanti. The famous sculptor himself.

  Vin was dressed all in tweed, his gray hair a fluffy halo enveloping his head. He looked every inch the eccentric artist.

  His light blue eyes met mine and a wide smile spread across his face. “Ms. Lucia!” he greeted. I rose from my seat to take his has outstretched hand.

  “Mr. Galanti! It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve studied your work in great depth.”

  Mr. Galanti gestured for me to sit. He sat opposite me. “Please, call me Vin. And I’m very happy to meet you too, Ms. Lucia. I was honored to see the Contemporary Art show you curated in Toronto last year and I was extremely impressed.”

  “Thank you, Vin,” I said in reply, genuinely taken aback by the compliment.

  “No, thank you. It is truly an honor to meet someone so young who is so passionate about art.”

  “I am, sir,” I said happily, “It’s the center of my entire life.”

  Vin sat forward like an excited child. I had to stop myself from laughing at the grin on his face. “So,” he said conspiratorially, “Elpidio...”

  “Yes,” I croaked, my voice barely audible. The mere thought of curating his work made me feel weak at the knees.

  “At last I’m commissioning his first show and I am looking for the right curator to put it all together.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you believe this could be you?”

  “Yes, sir,” I retorted with confidence. “As soon as I heard about the position, I dropped everything to fly out here to meet you. I know I’m the best person for this job. I’ve studied his work. I’ve written academic journals on his methods and on his themes. I’ve written articles on his rise to fame.”

  Vin sat back, clasped his hands and nodded his head. He seemed to have lost his enthusiasm. My stomach rolled. I wanted this position so, so much.

  “I’ve read your articles and journals, Ms. Lucia,” he said. I waited for him to say more. “You’re an exceptional art scholar and you clearly have a passion for my protégé.”

  “Yes, sir,” I replied, “He’s one of my favorite contemporary sculptors.” I paused at what I’d just said and lowered my eyes to inspect the wooden table. “No, excuse me,” I said nervously, “Elpidio is my absolute favorite contemporary artist, period.”

  Vin’s head tilted to the side. “Why?” Vin’s eyes had lit up with interest.

  “Why…” I whispered, contemplating how I could express my love for his work in words. I took in a long breath, thinking through my answer, and opted to speak from the heart. I closed my eyes picturing his sculptures and let my words flow.

  “His works… They are both the saddest and most beautiful pieces of art I have ever seen. Every curve of the marble comes from deep within his heart. The themes of his works are both provocative and gutting at the same time. I could get lost in every single one of them, all day, everyday for the rest of my life and never tire of it. They are raw and poetic… so tragic, yet so beautiful. The merest of glances at any one of the pieces evokes a kaleidoscope of emotions from the very depths of the soul. I don’t know what else to say except that his work communicates with me like no other,” I patted my hand over my heart, “it speaks directly to every fiber of my being. I feel his work. I feel it, as though it lives and breathes, just like you and I.”

  Opening my eyes, I blushed in embarrassment as I realized just how lost to my thoughts I had become. Vin leaned forward again and tapped my hand with his.

  “Well, Ms. Lucia, that was quite the answer,” Vin said, with a hint of humor in his tone.

  Huffing a nervous laugh, I brushed a loose piece of hair from my face. “He’s quite the sculptor.”

  “Yes, he is,” Vin said, then sighed a heavy sigh. “He’s a genius, a brilliant, brilliant man, though he will never ever think it of himself.”

  Seeming to forget he was in my company, Vin pulled himself round from his sudden sadness. After several seconds of silence, Vin said, “I’m an old fashioned man, Ms. Lucia. I don’t care for formal job interviews and I’m not one for rote scripted replies. I want a curator who understands Elpidio’s work, someone who is as passionate about it as I am.”

  “I’ve studied each of those pieces more than anyone, anyone, Vin. I’m convinced I’m the only curator who can design that gallery, the only person who can create a story worthy of his work. I know I can design the perfect space to showcase his talent. I can do this, Vin, believe me I can. I’ve never failed to deliver before, and I most certainly wouldn’t fail with this show.”

  Vin laughed and once more patted my hand. “Ms. Lucia, after reading your journals
and speaking to you today, I am just as convinced of this as you are. But even if I wasn’t; listening to you describe how Elpidio’s work affects you just now, well, it would have won you the position regardless.”

  For a moment I let what he’d just said hang in the air. Unable to resist the need for clarification, I asked, “Do I… have I got the position?”

  Vin nodded his head once and stood up. “You have indeed. Ms. Lucia. I’m not one to procrastinate. I’ve already explored your academic credentials and caught up with previous employers. You come highly recommended, you have dedicated your life to curating from what I can gather.”

  Warmth spread in my chest, and I let myself feel a fleeting moment of pride. I had dedicated every moment since college to this career. Even in college, I always knew what my path would be.

  Rising to my feet, I offered my hand to Vin, who graciously accepted it. “Thank you, Vin,” I said humbly. He gave my hand a firm shake as if to seal the contract.

  “When do you need me here in New York? I can be back from California in the next few days if necessary. Is the exhibit here at the Met? The Guggenheim?”

  “None of the above,” Vin said with a casual wave of his hand as he made his way to the door. I frowned in confusion. “It’s going to be small, academic and local to me.”

  “Okay,” I said hesitantly.

  Vin glanced back from the door. “It’ll be in Seattle, Ms. Lucia, at the University of Washington’s art museum. I’m a patron there and I want to garner some exposure for it. Plus, Elpidio would not countenance a big name gallery. He wants intimate.”

  Intimate… The very sound of Elpidio next to the word intimate evoked a warm glow all over my body. I was obsessed with a man I’d never met, no more than a concept. And here I was getting to work physically with his masterpieces—the marble expressions of his soul, the imprints of his heart… in Seattle.